


I wanna do right (but not right now)

by dogeared



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Community: picfor1000, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e10 Kiʻilua (Deceiver), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stopping for a little while, and holding on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wanna do right (but not right now)

Steve's not home. He should be, but he's not—Danny makes a circuit of the first floor, pokes his head upstairs, calls out and knocks on the wall halfheartedly with his knuckles on his way back down when he doesn't find Steve, just in case the goof is hiding somewhere and trying to prove a point, but there's no movement and no answer, and everything stays quiet. 

He's about to give up—he jingles his keys in his pocket and glances out the back door, scanning the water and not seeing anything there, either, and then Danny nearly has a heart attack when he spots Steve, flat on his back in the grass behind the house. 

He's in motion before he's even conscious of it, every single worst-case scenario elbowing for room in his thoughts—maybe _Steve_ had a heart attack, or a stroke, or maybe he got shot, god, did he get shot, is Danny going to get shot?—and then he's skidding to his knees by Steve's side like he's sliding into home, thumping into Steve's warm body— Warm, okay, warm is good, and when his hands land on Steve's chest, Danny can feel him breathing, can feel the regular thud of his heart, and Steve opens his eyes to see Danny looming over him and looks a little sheepish as he says, "Oh, hey, Danno."

Danny has to hang his head for a second or two to catch his breath, to force down his instinctive panic response, to swallow hard against the sudden queasy certainty that he's going to break his streak, and when he looks up again, he's able to take in the scene more fully—the lawn half-mowed and half-overgrown, the antique of a push mower lying in the grass a few feet away, the glass of iced something nestled in the grass next to Steve, the fact that Steve looks sleepy and healthy and whole.

"Did you slice off a digit, Steven?" Danny asks, trying to sound normal, trying to sound irritated and not like his heart's still beating way too fast. "Are you bleeding out?"

"Nope," Steve says, wiggling his toes for Danny to see, watching him like he's trying to figure Danny out, and Danny laughs, can't help it, a muddled sound of terror and relief and gratitude making its way out of him, even though it still feels like his heart's wedged up somewhere near the base of his throat.

Steve starts to push up onto his elbows, and Danny presses down gently against his sternum, against the muscle and bone under his shirt, says, "No, no, it's okay, let's just"—he flops over onto his own back, blinks up at the blue sky, breathes in and out once, twice—"let's just stay here for a minute."

They do, and it's only a little bit weird, and Danny finally wills his body to calm the fuck down. He feels grounded with the earth supporting his weight and Steve's shoulder solid against his own. Some of the grass is tall enough that he can see it waving out of the corner of his eye, can feel it creeping under his collar to tickle the back of his neck, and he smells the green tang of the clippings, hears the faint buzzes and chirps of insects and birds, the shush of waves against the beach. The fabric over his knees feels damp—grass stains, probably, just another thing to add to the McGarrett dry cleaning tab—but the sun's warm on his skin, and he can maybe understand why Steve was lulled into taking a nap out here, into just stopping for a little while.

He can also recognize why he might, possibly, have overreacted at the sight of Steve on the ground and too still, because they've all been exhausted and blurry around the edges with grief after everything in North Korea, after Jenna. Danny knows his own heart's been tender and sore, like it's taken a beating and is just waiting for the next blow, but Steve's been worst of all, and he's been wearing it right there on his skin for anyone to see—scrapes and bruises and dark circles under his eyes, the tight, ruthless set of his jaw, an arm tucked carefully around his ribs like he's holding himself together.

Danny sneaks a look at Steve now—his eyes are closed again, and he looks almost boyish in his t-shirt and shorts, his bare feet pale and vulnerable in a patch of sunshine. As if Steve can hear what Danny's thinking, he murmurs, "It was one of my chores, when I was a kid, mowing the lawn. I always thought Dad should get something cool, you know, something with a motor and a little power, but Mom didn't like the noise, so I had to use this thing, and I had to do it right, every Saturday, before I was allowed to ride my bike or go surfing or anything."

Danny can picture it, a gawky teenage Steve whose biggest care in the world is rushing through cutting the grass, doing a good enough job that his old man doesn't get on his case about it so he can go spend the day frolicking in the ocean.

"Dad never would have let it get like this, but I just, I don't know. Let it get away from me." Danny doesn't have to ask why, and he doesn't suggest that Steve just pay some neighborhood kid to come mow the lawn, because he gets why something so ordinary, something that connects Steve to the ghosts of his family, might be its own kind of comfort.

"I should get up," Steve says after a few more minutes of quiet, sounding like he's trying to convince himself. "Hey, what were you doing here, anyway, Danny?"

"Nothing," Danny says, knocking his knuckles against Steve's, hooking their pinky fingers together like a promise and holding tight, holding on. "Nothing, just looking for you."


End file.
